Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (interesting books to read TXT) 📖
- Author: Anthony Trollope
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hardly be aware that the last friendly grasp of the hand had been
made more precious by the touch of gold. Whereas, that fellow Thorne
would lug out half a crown from his breeches pocket and give it in
change for a ten shilling piece. And then it was clear that this man
had no appreciation of the dignity of a learned profession. He might
constantly be seen compounding medicines in the shop, at the left
hand of his front door; not making experiments philosophically in
materia medica for the benefit of coming ages—which, if he did, he
should have done in the seclusion of his study, far from profane
eyes—but positively putting together common powders for rural
bowels, or spreading vulgar ointments for agricultural ailments.
A man of this sort was not fit society for Dr Fillgrave of
Barchester. That must be admitted. And yet he had been found to be
fit society for the old squire of Greshamsbury, whose shoe-ribbons Dr
Fillgrave would not have objected to tie; so high did the old squire
stand in the county just previous to his death. But the spirit of the
Lady Arabella was known by the medical profession of Barsetshire, and
when that good man died it was felt that Thorne’s short tenure of
Greshamsbury favour was already over. The Barsetshire regulars were,
however, doomed to disappointment. Our doctor had already contrived
to endear himself to the heir; and though there was not even then
much personal love between him and the Lady Arabella, he kept his
place at the great house unmoved, not only in the nursery and in the
bedrooms, but also at the squire’s dining-table.
Now there was in this, it must be admitted, quite enough to make him
unpopular with his brethren; and this feeling was soon shown in a
marked and dignified manner. Dr Fillgrave, who had certainly the
most respectable professional connexion in the county, who had a
reputation to maintain, and who was accustomed to meet, on almost
equal terms, the great medical baronets from the metropolis at the
houses of the nobility—Dr Fillgrave declined to meet Dr Thorne in
consultation. He exceedingly regretted, he said, most exceedingly,
the necessity which he felt of doing so: he had never before had
to perform so painful a duty; but, as a duty which he owed to his
profession, he must perform it. With every feeling of respect for
Lady –-, a sick guest at Greshamsbury—and for Mr Gresham, he must
decline to attend in conjunction with Dr Thorne. If his services
could be made available under any other circumstances, he would go to
Greshamsbury as fast as post-horses could carry him.
Then, indeed, there was war in Barsetshire. If there was on Dr
Thorne’s cranium one bump more developed than another, it was that of
combativeness. Not that the doctor was a bully, or even pugnacious,
in the usual sense of the word; he had no disposition to provoke a
fight, no propense love of quarrelling; but there was that in him
which would allow him to yield to no attack. Neither in argument nor
in contest would he ever allow himself to be wrong; never at least to
any one but to himself; and on behalf of his special hobbies, he was
ready to meet the world at large.
It will therefore be understood, that when such a gauntlet was thus
thrown in his very teeth by Dr Fillgrave, he was not slow to take it
up. He addressed a letter to the Barsetshire Conservative Standard,
in which he attacked Dr Fillgrave with some considerable acerbity.
Dr Fillgrave responded in four lines, saying that on mature
consideration he had made up his mind not to notice any remarks
that might be made on him by Dr Thorne in the public press. The
Greshamsbury doctor then wrote another letter, more witty and much
more severe than the last; and as this was copied into the Bristol,
Exeter, and Gloucester papers, Dr Fillgrave found it very difficult
to maintain the magnanimity of his reticence. It is sometimes
becoming enough for a man to wrap himself in the dignified toga of
silence, and proclaim himself indifferent to public attacks; but it
is a sort of dignity which it is very difficult to maintain. As well
might a man, when stung to madness by wasps, endeavour to sit in his
chair without moving a muscle, as endure with patience and without
reply the courtesies of a newspaper opponent. Dr Thorne wrote a third
letter, which was too much for medical flesh and blood to bear. Dr
Fillgrave answered it, not, indeed, in his own name, but in that of
a brother doctor; and then the war raged merrily. It is hardly too
much to say that Dr Fillgrave never knew another happy hour. Had he
dreamed of what materials was made that young compounder of doses at
Greshamsbury he would have met him in consultation, morning, noon,
and night, without objection; but having begun the war, he was
constrained to go on with it: his brethren would allow him no
alternative. Thus he was continually being brought up to the fight,
as a prize-fighter may be seen to be, who is carried up round after
round, without any hope on his own part, and who, in each round,
drops to the ground before the very wind of his opponent’s blows.
But Dr Fillgrave, though thus weak himself, was backed in practice
and in countenance by nearly all his brethren in the county. The
guinea fee, the principle of giving advice and of selling no
medicine, the great resolve to keep a distinct barrier between
the physician and the apothecary, and, above all, the hatred of
the contamination of a bill, were strong in the medical mind of
Barsetshire. Dr Thorne had the provincial medical world against him,
and so he appealed to the metropolis. The Lancet took the matter up
in his favour, but the Journal of Medical Science was against him;
the Weekly Chirurgeon, noted for its medical democracy, upheld him
as a medical prophet, but the Scalping Knife, a monthly periodical
got up in dead opposition to the Lancet, showed him no mercy. So
the war went on, and our doctor, to a certain extent, became a noted
character.
He had, moreover, other difficulties to encounter in his professional
career. It was something in his favour that he understood his
business; something that he was willing to labour at it with energy;
and resolved to labour at it conscientiously. He had also other
gifts, such as conversational brilliancy, an aptitude for true
good fellowship, firmness in friendship, and general honesty of
disposition, which stood him in stead as he advanced in life. But,
at his first starting, much that belonged to himself personally was
against him. Let him enter what house he would, he entered it with a
conviction, often expressed to himself, that he was equal as a man to
the proprietor, equal as a human being to the proprietress. To age he
would allow deference, and to special recognised talent—at least so
he said; to rank also, he would pay that respect which was its clear
and recognised prerogative; he would let a lord walk out of a room
before him if he did not happen to forget it; in speaking to a duke
he would address him as his Grace; and he would in no way assume a
familiarity with bigger men than himself, allowing to the bigger man
the privilege of making the first advances. But beyond this he would
admit that no man should walk the earth with his head higher than his
own.
He did not talk of these things much; he offended no rank by boasts
of his own equality; he did not absolutely tell the Earl de Courcy in
words, that the privilege of dining at Courcy Castle was to him no
greater than the privilege of dining at Courcy Parsonage; but there
was that in his manner that told it. The feeling in itself was
perhaps good, and was certainly much justified by the manner in which
he bore himself to those below him in rank; but there was folly in
the resolution to run counter to the world’s recognised rules on such
matters; and much absurdity in his mode of doing so, seeing that at
heart he was a thorough Conservative. It is hardly too much to say
that he naturally hated a lord at first sight; but, nevertheless, he
would have expended his means, his blood, and spirit, in fighting for
the upper house of Parliament.
Such a disposition, until it was thoroughly understood, did not tend
to ingratiate him with the wives of the country gentlemen among whom
he had to look for practice. And then, also, there was not much in
his individual manner to recommend him to the favour of ladies. He
was brusque, authoritative, given to contradiction, rough though
never dirty in his personal belongings, and inclined to indulge
in a sort of quiet raillery, which sometimes was not thoroughly
understood. People did not always know whether he was laughing
at them or with them; and some people were, perhaps, inclined to
think that a doctor should not laugh at all when called in to act
doctorially.
When he was known, indeed, when the core of the fruit had been
reached, when the huge proportions of that loving trusting heart had
been learned, and understood, and appreciated, when that honesty had
been recognised, that manly, and almost womanly tenderness had been
felt, then, indeed, the doctor was acknowledged to be adequate in his
profession. To trifling ailments he was too often brusque. Seeing
that he accepted money for the cure of such, he should, we may say,
have cured them without an offensive manner. So far he is without
defence. But to real suffering no one found him brusque; no patient
lying painfully on a bed of sickness ever thought him rough.
Another misfortune was, that he was a bachelor. Ladies think, and
I, for one, think that ladies are quite right in so thinking, that
doctors should be married men. All the world feels that a man when
married acquires some of the attributes of an old woman—he becomes,
to a certain extent, a motherly sort of being; he acquires a
conversance with women’s ways and women’s wants, and loses the wilder
and offensive sparks of his virility. It must be easier to talk to
such a one about Matilda’s stomach, and the growing pains in Fanny’s
legs, than to a young bachelor. This impediment also stood much in Dr
Thorne’s way during his first years at Greshamsbury.
But his wants were not at first great; and though his ambition was
perhaps high, it was not of an impatient nature. The world was his
oyster; but, circumstanced as he was, he knew that it was not for him
to open it with his lancet all at once. He had bread to earn, which
he must earn wearily; he had a character to make, which must come
slowly; it satisfied his soul that, in addition to his immortal
hopes, he had a possible future in this world to which he could look
forward with clear eyes, and advance with a heart that would know no
fainting.
On his first arrival at Greshamsbury he had been put by the squire
into a house, which he still occupied when that squire’s grandson
came of age. There were two decent, commodious, private houses in the
village—always excepting the rectory, which stood grandly in its own
grounds, and, therefore, was considered as ranking above the village
residences—of these two Dr Thorne had the smaller. They stood
exactly at the angle before described, on the outer side of it, and
at
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